A Long Process
by Grac3
Summary: Molly Hooper cannot perform a Boggart Banishing Charm, something which her yearmates find incredibly funny. Tired of the teasing and desperate to be able to get rid of her terrifying Boggart, Molly enlists the aid of the only one who can help her - the Ravenclaw, Sherlock Holmes. Twoshot. Eventual Sherlolly. See warnings inside.
1. Professor Boaz

**A.N.:** I set this story in the Marauders era, and I basically slotted the Sherlock characters into various houses and years:  
**Sherlock:** Fourth year Ravenclaw  
**John:** Seventh year Gryffindor  
**Molly:** Third year Hufflepuff  
**Mike:** Third year Hufflepuff  
**Jim:** Third year Slytherin  
**Sebastian:** Third year Slytherin  
**Donovan:** Sixth year Slytherin  
The Marauders and Severus are in their fourth year.

**Warnings:** Bullying, mentions of child abuse

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Chapter 1 – Professor Boaz

The crate rattled ominously on the floor of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom as the third year Hufflepuffs and Slytherins filed in. The chairs and tables of the classroom had been pushed to the sides, and the crate sat in the centre of the classroom where the front of the aisle would have been. Professor Boaz – a young, pretty woman who had taken on the feared job of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher back in September – stood behind the crate waiting patiently for her students to enter.

Molly stood near the back of the room, eyeing the crate suspiciously. She had a pretty good idea of what was in there, and the thought made her a little more than slightly apprehensive.

"Good morning," Professor Boaz greeted the class with a warm smile. The Hufflepuffs returned the greeting; the Slytherins mumbled and grumbled. "Who can tell me what is in the crate?"

A few hands shot up, including Molly's, though she desperately hoped that she wouldn't get picked for fear of getting the answer wrong.

"Molly?" Professor Boaz asked, her voice friendly and unthreatening.

Moly gulped in embarrassment. She took a moment before answering. She looked away from the crate and Professor Boaz, and saw Jim smirking at her from the front of the Slytherin crowd across the classroom. He was almost willing her to make a fool of herself.

"I-is it a Boggart?" she offered.

Professor Boaz smiled. "Yes, it is. Ten points to Hufflepuff."

Molly relaxed and shot a triumphant look across the classroom at Jim, who looked as though he had just swallowed a bogey-flavoured Bertie Botts Every-Flavour Bean.

She settled into the lesson after that. Professor Boaz asked individual members of the class about what they knew about Boggarts: why they were Dark creatures, why this one was living in the crate in the first place, and the incantation for the Boggart Banishing Charm.

Fifteen minutes into the lesson, however, Professor Boaz told them all to get out their wands, for they would be attempting the spell themselves. She instructed them all to get into a line and she would release the Boggart so that they could face it one-by-one. The students began to move and Molly, nervous and desperate to get this out of the way, took a space about ten students from the front of the line.

"Ready?" Professor Boaz asked the class. A collective nod went down the line; Molly stayed perfectly still. Professor Boaz opened the crate, and a swirling mass emerged.

Jim – who was at the front of the line – looked up at the Boggart, mystified, while the Dark creature seemed confused as to what form to take. He lifted his wand confidently and cried, "_Riddikulus_!" There was a massive _crack_ and the Boggart seemed to falter slightly as Jim – cheered on by his fellow Slytherins – sauntered to the back of the line.

The next few students took on the Boggart reasonably well; each managed to get rid of the Boggart on their second or third tries. There were snakes, spiders, clowns; Mike – who wanted to be a Healer – had a dead body on the floor (he later explained to Molly that it was a patient whom he had been unable to save).

The success of others buoyed Molly up for when she reached the front of the line. The previous Boggart – a vampire with its blood-covered fangs bared – transformed into the image of a man she knew very well, who then began to bellow loudly at her.

Molly froze. Her wand hand stopped mid-movement as she stepped back slightly from the form before her.

"Come on, Miss Hooper," Professor Boaz shouted over the Boggart. "_Riddikulus_!"

Molly – whose hand was shaking – raised her wand. "_Riddikulus_!" she squeaked. Nothing happened; if anything, the shouting got louder. "_R-Riddikulus_!" Still nothing happened.

"_Riddikulus_!" Professor Boaz cried. The Boggart disappeared with a loud _crack_ and, Professor Boaz ushered Molly to the back of the line with a sympathetic look.

Molly, turning crimson with embarrassment, trudged to the back of the line. As she passed Jim, she heard him snickering at her.

"Stupid Hooper can't even get rid of a Boggart," she heard him whisper to Sebastian behind him, who laughed too. Molly picked up her pace as tears began to prickle in her eyes.

~{G}~

After the lesson finished – everyone else had successfully managed to get rid of their Boggart – Molly took a detour to the Great Hall for lunch. She knew of a secret passageway down to the ground floor from Remus Lupin, who was in the year above her; in her second year, she had nearly got in the way of one of the pranks of his best friends, James Potter and Sirius Black, but as it hadn't been intended for her, the Gryffindor kindly dragged her out of the way and into the secret passageway. She was fairly certain that none of the Slytherins knew about it.

She was wrong.

She was halfway down the second spiral staircase of the secret passageway when she heard a familiar voice, one that chilled her to the bone. What was more, it was getting louder.

Molly opted to act normally and try and pass by without too much of a confrontation. She turned the corner of the staircase and came face-to-face with Sally Donovan.

Donovan was a sixth year Slytherin who, for the most part, left Molly alone. It was more the Slytherins in her own year, in particular Jim and Sebastian, who hated her. Yet as she got closer to the Slytherin, she noticed that Donovan had a wicked smile on her face.

"Hello, Hooper," she smiled, in a false tone of friendliness.

"Hello," Molly nodded, standing up as tall as she could. She wondered if she would be able to reach her wand first, if it came to that; yet knowing that she would probably be less than useless in a duel, she wondered if any of the teachers knew about the secret passageway…

"Heard about your little Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson," Donovan sneered. "Can't even get rid of a Boggart?"

Molly gulped nervously. "I-I'm sure I just need some more practice," she said, her voice hollow. Jim and Sebastian's laughter was still ringing in her ears.

"Hmm, practice," Donovan agreed, looking Molly up and down. "I'd be happy to teach you. I remember doing Boggarts in third year; _I_ got rid of it first try, but then, I _am_ a pureblood and I've grown up with magic all my life. Maybe it's more difficult for you Mudbloods."

Spurred on by her hatred of that word, Molly sought to defend herself. "Mike got rid of it, and he's Muggleborn!" she insisted, her voice sounding stronger.

"Oh! So it's not a Mudblood thing, then," Donovan grinned evilly and leaned down into her face. "Maybe it's just you."

Molly's eyes started to prickle slightly as Donovan straightened up. "I-" she began.

"Course, you could always ask the freak for help," the Slytherin shrugged. "If he'll give you the time of day, that is."

"I help him with Astronomy," Molly mumbled.

"Oh, yes!" Donovan nodded, her voice sarcastic. "Yeah, he takes help if he needs it. But he'd never give it. You're wasting your time with that one."

Molly felt winded. "What do you mean?"

Sally smirked. "Everyone knows about your little… crush. It's cute. But it's never gonna happen."

Molly, determined not to cry in front of the Slytherin, pushed passed and headed for the Great Hall as quickly as she could, trying to ignore the cackles from above her.

She _would_ ask him for help, and he _would_ accept.

~{G}~

"Where did you say you found this sludge again?" Severus asked, as he tipped the rich, royal blue gunk into the simmering potion before him.

"On the bottom of Flugelhorn's trunk," Sherlock explained, watching on from a distance.

"Felix Flugelhorn?" the Slytherin enquired, as he readjusted the flame beneath his cauldron with his wand. The Ravenclaw nodded.

"Yes, it was found on the bottom of his trunk which had been emptied of all its contents," he elaborated, jumping out of his seat to stand opposite Severus and inspect the potion. Prior to the gunk being added, it had been a bright pink colour; it had now become a murky brown.

"And you don't know what it is?" Severus looked from the potion to Sherlock with a smirk playing on his lips.

Sherlock scowled. "No," he admitted through gritted teeth. "That's why I need you." He picked up his bag from the table and readied to leave.

Severus chuckled. "And why me, specifically?" He grinned mockingly.

"Because," Sherlock began, tying his scarf around his neck, "you are the only one skilled enough at Potions to get Slughorn to like you enough to let you use the classroom at lunchtime."

"Are you saying that I'm better at you than something?"

Sherlock froze in anger. He turned very slowly back to the Slytherin. "Only marginally," he mumbled; Severus smirked.

The Ravenclaw turned back and began walking towards the door. "Let me know what colour that turns in an hour; a man's alibi depends on it."

He did not turn back to the Slytherin as he marched out of the Potions classroom. His stomach gave an unpleasant twinge, demanding food, but he would not eat until he knew who had emptied Felix's trunk. Nevertheless, there was no headway to be made in the case until he knew what colour the potion turned, so he decided to go down to the Great Hall anyway.

He passed the Ravenclaw table without so much as a backwards glance, heading straight for Gryffindor. Though lunchtime was half over, the table was still pretty much full of students, most of whom were watching the infamous Marauders set up their latest prank. One student, however, was not engaged in the 'entertainment': a blond boy at the very end who ate with considerable gusto.

Sherlock sat down in front of him, and the blond boy jumped.

"Sherlock!"

"John," he nodded. John Watson was a seventh year Gryffindor, and since Sherlock had started at the school three years after him, the two had become friends. Well, Sherlock supposed that 'friends' was the right word. He had never needed such a word previously.

"Why do you keep sneaking up on me?" John sighed, pulling another piece of risotto onto his plate.

"I don't," Sherlock supplied simply. "You just don't observe my arrival."

John rolled his eyes but knew better than to try and argue. "How is the case going?"

"Fine," Sherlock explained. "Nearly finished, in fact."

There was a cheer from the other end of the table. The two boys looked around to see that the Marauders had successfully managed to charm a number of water balloons to fall on an unsuspecting Hufflepuff's head.

Sherlock turned away as the Hufflepuff went passed. John flicked his wand from under the table and dried him off. Not knowing how the effects of the prank had suddenly been reversed, he looked around, confused. He did not suspect that John had anything to do with it, so shrugged off his seemingly good fortune and carried on to his own table.

Sherlock had noticed, though. "Why did you do that?"

John, who had humbly returned to his food, looked up. "Sorry?"

"Why did you help him? He doesn't even know it was you."

"Well," John shrugged. "It was a… good thing to do."

One of the reasons that Sherlock had been so intrigued by John Watson – other than the fact that he had cursed their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in Sherlock's first year when the Ravenclaw had discovered that he had been using the Imperius Curse to force students to maim themselves, and was nearly about to do the same to Sherlock – was that he had a strong moral code that Sherlock did not understand. And not understanding was something that he was not used to.

The Ravenclaw rarely paid attention to social expectations, for they were too bothersome and often got in his way. The Sorting Hat had sensed this in him in his first year and had threatened to put him in Slytherin; but Sherlock had protested, for if the Hat were to choose Slytherin over Ravenclaw, it would seem like a slight on his obviously superior intelligence. Lucky for him, the Sorting Hat paid attention to the individual's choice – though when he had told John about this, the Gryffindor had joked that the Hat had given in just to shut Sherlock up.

He studied John carefully. "Maybe I could learn something from you," he smiled.

John snorted and looked up again. "_You_, learn something from _me_?" He seemed rather smug at this. "I thought you knew everything?"

"I know everything of importance," Sherlock clarified.

"So knowing good from bad is not of importance?" John asked, his eyebrow raised. Sherlock sensed that this was a trap. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder.

"What?" he snapped impatiently, turning to the person behind him. It was Molly Hooper, looking like an owl caught in the Hogwarts Express lights. Her eyes were red around the edges – she'd been crying. The hems of her sleeve were slightly frayed – she'd been fidgeting with them, possibly a sign of distress. Her hair was little messy, but too messy to indicate that the untidiness was simply due to her not having brushed it this morning – running?

"I… er…" she squeaked. "N-never mind." She disappeared again, sinking onto the bench at the Hufflepuff table and staring at the table before her, blankly.

Sherlock, slightly confused by this, shrugged and turned back to John.

John was glaring at him.

"What?" he asked.

John sighed. "That would go firmly in the 'wrong' category," he said, harshly. Sherlock blanched. Had he done something wrong? He hadn't done anything…

"What did I do?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"She's upset!" John exclaimed.

"Well, yet, that was obvious. But what does that have to do with me?"

John shook his head in disbelief. "You're joking, right?"

"John, you have known me for four years, you know I never joke." This didn't seem to have helped matters, however, for John still appeared exasperated.

The Gryffindor sighed again. "She was trying to talk to you about it."

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking around to the Hufflepuff table and back again. "Why?"

"Honestly?" John asked. "I have no idea. But I think you at least owe her an apology." He gestured to the Hufflepuff table.

Sherlock looked back round. Molly was still staring wide-eyed at the table. Sighing, he pushed himself up and headed over, hearing John rise from his seat behind him.

Sherlock sat opposite Molly, drawing the Hufflepuff's attention. Her cheeks darkened when she saw who had taken the seat, as John sat next to her.

"I have been informed," Sherlock began, glancing at John for confirmation that he was doing this correctly; he was awarded with a swift nod, "that I should have listened to you earlier. Therefore, I am giving you the opportunity to talk. To me. Now."

Molly blinked, half in surprise, half in confusion. She shot John a quick 'is-he-for-real?' look – which was responded to with another quick nod, this time accompanied with an eye-roll – and turned back to Sherlock, who was now glaring at the Gryffindor.

Molly gulped, nervous. "Well… it's just…" She took a deep, shaky breath, and her gaze dropped so that she was staring at the Ravenclaw's scarf, though Sherlock supposed that she was not really seeing it. She then paused. Sherlock was beginning to feel annoyed; if she wanted his attention for much longer, she would have to speak up.

"It's okay, take your time," he nodded reassuringly, flashing a false smile. "But speak quickly." He dropped the smile. John shot him another pointed look, but Sherlock reasoned that as he had only seen it in his peripheral vision, it didn't actually count.

Molly sighed, and closed her eyes briefly. She opened them again and spoke. "I just had Defence Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins," she explained. "We were looking at Boggarts, and how to get rid of them. But when Professor Boaz brought out the Boggart…" She trailed off. Sherlock's irritation, which had begun to morph into relief when she had finally started talking, now piqued again. He was about to announce his boredom at her silence when she resumed her story. "Well, I was the only one who couldn't get rid of the Boggart. I felt like an idiot."

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain that she was, in fact, an idiot – and that she shouldn't worry about it, because almost everyone was – but was stopped by John. He reluctantly opted to remain silent, which was an incredibly difficult feat for the Ravenclaw.

"I suppose Jim and Sebastian found that very funny," John asked sympathetically. Molly nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. Sherlock began to panic – what would he do if she started crying?

Mercifully, she gulped away the tears. She looked back up at Sherlock. "Well, I was just… wondering, if… if…"

"Yes, yes, spit it out!" Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock!" John barked.

Yet Molly continued as if the boys had never spoken. "If you would mind tutoring me?"

Sherlock's head snapped back from the Gryffindor to the Hufflepuff. "What?"

Molly sighed. "Would you mind tutoring me in the Boggart Banishing Charm, please?" she asked more clearly, finding it easier now that she had technically already asked once.

Sherlock considered the request for a moment: having to spend time that could be used to solve cases tutoring a girl who could easily practice the charm on her own, most likely having to deal with a hysterical Hufflepuff as she faced her worst fear repeatedly, having to possibly face his own Boggart…

"Boring," he declared in a monotone, and made to get up. John, however, shot him such a thunderous look that Sherlock was almost convinced that the Gryffindor was going to curse him. He slowly lowered himself back down into his seat.

"This isn't a case," the Ravenclaw hissed at John, as though Molly wasn't even there.

"No," John agreed. "But you said yourself that the Flugelhorn case is nearly completed, and you don't have anything else lined up. This is a challenge. It will stop you breaking into Gryffindor Tower and throwing Reductor Curses at the wall," John added in a mutter.

Sherlock glared at him for a moment, before deciding that a challenge – in any form – would be better than having to deal with the mind-numbing boredom of not having anything to do. He slowly turned to Molly, whose eyes were wide in apprehension.

"Molly, I will tutor you," he nodded at her. She began to smile. "Meet me in the Defence Against the Dark Arts room at seven on Thursday."

And with that – without waiting for the Hufflepuff to respond – he swept out of the Great Hall to the Potions classroom, for the final decider in the Flugelhorn case.


	2. Professor Holmes

**A.N.:** Thank you to Ariane De Vere for her transcript of Hound of the Baskerville, cause otherwise I literally could not have written this chapter.

**Warnings:** Character death (sort of), mentions of bullying and child abuse

* * *

Chapter 2 – Professor Holmes

The door of the Defence Against the Dark Arts room was closed at seven o' clock on Thursday evening. Molly stood before it, staring up at it, and wondering if Sherlock was already here or not.

She looked both left and right, but there was no one coming down the corridor. She almost wondered if he was coming at all. It would not be beyond him to have found something more to his liking to do with his time, and to cancel at the last minute without even telling her.

"Are you waiting for someone, girl?"

Molly jumped at the sound of the voice, twisting round to see where it was coming from. Her eyes settled on a painting on the wall behind her. It was of a wizard who was dressed in Muggle military uniform from the Regency period. He had short brown hair and a glorious grey moustache, and was standing with a perfectly straight back. The background of the painting was a large field filled with poppies that made it seem like his torso – clad in its red jacket – was blended into the surroundings.

"Um," she squeaked, in shock from this sudden intrusion on her thoughts. "Y-yes."

The figure in the painting smiled. "He's already in there," he gestured to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. "Saw him go in about fifteen minutes ago, asked me to send you in. Terribly sorry I'm a bit late, I was over there." He pointed to his left, and Molly followed with her eyes to a painting of the inside of a pub in which several wizards were repeatedly downing foaming pints of lager. "Dreadfully fun bunch of lads, I should say!" the military wizard grinned. He stared at the drunkards longingly for a moment before snapping back to his senses. "Anyway, you should be going in."

"Thank you," Molly nodded, tearing her eyes away from the pub painting; one of the wizards had now fallen off of his bar stool and placed his mug on his head – throwing the contents over himself in the process – and was giggling uncontrollably. She turned to the door and made to push it open.

"Ah, young love!"

Molly turned sharply to the military wizard, who was again smiling warmly.

"N-no!" she exclaimed. "That's not… that's not what we're doing!" She felt her cheeks darken. "He's tutoring me-"

The military wizard held up his hand to silence her. "Don't worry! I won't tell anyone!" He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger and winked knowingly.

Deciding that it wasn't really worth getting into an argument with a painting, Molly opened the door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom and closed it quickly behind her.

The classroom was laid out exactly the same as it had been for her lesson a few days previously: the tables and chairs were Vanished, and the case containing the Boggart was thrashing wildly as the creature inside ached to be let out. Sherlock – looking every part the proper professor, despite his school robes – was standing behind the case.

"Good evening," he nodded, sounding as though he didn't really want to be there.

"Hi," she greeted, taking a tentative step forward. "How did you… get the classroom like this?"

Sherlock smiled that smile that he always did when he knew he was better than you. "I… charmed Professor Boaz."

Molly blanched. "You cast a spell on the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?"

"No. I have a way with words," he smirked. "So," he began, straightening up and pulling his wand from his pocket. "Ready?"

Molly sighed and moved closer to the bucking case, apprehensive to have to face that Boggart once more. She retrieved her wand and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She nodded. "I'm ready."

Sherlock tapped the case with his wand, and the Boggart climbed out.

The Boggart that emerged had the appearance of a man wearing Muggle clothes: brown trousers with especially dull shoes, a gingham work shirt and a green jacket with suede elbow patches. He wore rectangular horn-rimmed glasses on his sharp but wrinkled face and his short brown hair was brushed into a meticulously smart style. He took a step towards Molly with a look of pure disgust on his face.

"FREAK!" he screamed. Molly instinctively took a step back. "A WITCH? I HAD SUCH DREAMS FOR YOU! WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO TELL PEOPLE WHEN THEY ASK WHERE YOU ARE HALF THE YEAR? ALL WE WANTED WAS FOR YOU TO BE NORMAL! BUT YOU'RE NOT! NORMAL, IT SEEMS, WAS TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR!"

"Molly, don't listen to it!" Sherlock shouted, but she could barely hear him over the Boggart.

Molly gulped and raised her wand. "R-Ridikkulus!" she exclaimed.

The charm did nothing.

"YOU'RE A FREAK! A MONSTROSITY! AN _ABOMINATION_!"

"No…" she gasped, her hand shaking. "Ridikkulus!"

"It's not real!" the Ravenclaw was saying, but his voice was lost under the Boggart's.

"Ridikkulus! Ridikkulus! RIDIKKULUS!"

"I WISH YOU HAD NEVER BEEN BORN!"

"RIDIKKULUS!"

Molly froze as the Boggart was silenced, a look of pure fury on its face. The spell had hit it squarely in the back, and it rounded on the Ravenclaw in anger, whose wand was raised to it.

"Ridikkulus!" Sherlock said with confidence.

The Boggart fell into the case, and the Ravenclaw locked it. The creature inside began to fight against its container once more.

A silence filled the room so thick it could have been cut with a knife. Molly's hand was trembling. She was, on some level, glad that Jim and Sebastian were not there to laugh at her; but Sherlock was gazing at her calculatingly and in all honesty she wasn't sure which was worse.

"I-I'm sorry." She squeaked, and turned quickly on her heel and ran through the door.

~{G}~

It had been decided that the first lesson had been a disaster. Yet – for some reason – Sherlock remained hopeful that with further practice the Boggart could be vanquished. Molly suspected that his drive was fuelled by boredom and that in the absence of a case, anything was preferable to dealing with whatever black hole his mind-numbing boredom sent him to. So they continued with their lessons on a weekly basis, meeting in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom every Thursday at seven o' clock.

The second lesson went only marginally better than the first. While Molly managed to hold up against the Boggart for a few more minutes this time, the end result was the same: a quick apology and a bolt out the door.

The third lesson was better still. While not actually banishing the Boggart, Molly did manage to silence it for a few seconds before it continued its hate-fuelled ranting.

By the fourth lesson, Molly was no closer to banishing her Boggart; she was, however, finding that she was becoming less scared of it. Repeated exposure to it had dulled her fear of the prospect of the shouting figure, even though her spellwork still left a little to be desired.

By the fifth lesson, she was merely frustrated at her lack of progress.

"Ridikkulus! Ridikkulus! RIDIKKULUS!" Molly screamed at the Boggart.

"FREAK! ABOMINATION!"

Molly growled in frustration, stamping her foot on the floor as she glared at the Boggart.

"Bugger off!" she shouted, thinking that it was at least worth a try. Needless to say, it made no difference.

"Only one emotion works against a Boggart," her teacher warned her, his voice calm but raised over the Boggart's shouting.

"Well, that wasn't working, so I thought I'd try something else!" she snapped, turning from the Boggart to Sherlock.

"Ridikkulus!" the Ravenclaw waved his wand at the Boggart and it retreated back into its case, thrashing wildly against the lock.

Molly sighed and began pacing. What was she doing wrong? Why was this so difficult? In the background, she was aware of Sherlock talking.

"Calm down, you're doing better than before-" She huffed sarcastically. "-and it doesn't matter that you're not getting it just yet."

"Oh, doesn't it?" she chuckled humourlessly, rounding on Sherlock. "I suppose you got it right first time, did you? Mr Ravenclaw I'm-so-much-smarter-than-everyone-else! What am I doing wrong? It's useless to tell me that I'm doing something wrong then suggest to fix it with practice, cause I'll keep on doing the same thing wrong again and again!"

Sherlock looked at her emotionlessly. It was a moment before he spoke.

"Molly…" he began. It seemed that whatever he was going to say was going to be painful for him to admit. "You're wrong."

"Of course I am! I'm always wrong, everyone is, because you're the great Sherlock Holmes and everyone is an idiot-"

"Molly."

She stopped abruptly, stunned into silence by the softness of his voice. "What?" she spat.

Sherlock gulped. "I… didn't get rid of my Boggart the first time." He spoke quickly as though if he were to allow himself any gaps he would stop altogether and take the secret to his grave.

Molly's eyes widened as she straightened herself up. She wasn't sure she was hearing right. "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. "Not being able to perform a spell does not make you stupid. The practical side of magic is less to do with intelligence and more to do with physical ability: the precise wand movements, the correct pronunciation, and – what is probably the most likely issue with your spellwork – a certain amount of confidence, a belief that you can do it which becomes a working spell external to the mind.

"While intelligence relies on knowing things – facts, figures, the way events and pieces of information link together in the bigger picture – the practical side of magic can be hindered by more than simply not being smart enough to remember that it was Zeleophahad the Zealous who campaigned for goblin rights in the sixteenth century; practical magic can be hindered by emotions, which is why we practice fighting Boggarts in lessons in the first place, because their unique power is one that plays so heavily on our emotions." He opened his eyes slowly.

"I thought you'd deleted all your emotions?" Molly asked quietly.

"I am finding that it is a long process," Sherlock told her.

A moment passed in silence. "How did you get rid of the Boggart? In the end?"

"Practice," he said.

Molly chuckled slightly. "Can you show me, please?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly. "Show you what?"

"How you got rid of the Boggart? So I can see what I'm doing wrong?"

"I have already told you what you're doing wrong," he explained, confused. "You don't truly believe that your spell will work."

Molly shifted slightly. "Please?"

Sherlock regarded her for a moment. "Fine," he sighed, and took his place before the writhing case. Molly walked round to the side of it, ready to open it with her wand. She looked over at the Ravenclaw inquiringly; he nodded.

"Alohomora," she said, and the case clicked open.

The Boggart – perhaps assuming that it would be facing the same opponent – emerged in the form of Molly's Boggart, its mouth already open to continue its tirade of abuse. When its eyes fell on its new adversary, however, it regarded the Ravenclaw carefully as it decided what to become. Suddenly, there was an almighty crack and the form of the Boggart changed.

It was still a human, but whereas Molly's Boggart had been 'alive', the person it now took the form of was lying on the ground with wide, dead eyes.

Molly recognised the person the Boggart represented, though she had never actually met him; the only reason that she knew what he looked like was due to his frequent photographic appearances in the Daily Prophet: Mycroft Holmes.

Yet what struck Molly most about the Boggart was not the identity that it took, but rather how he appeared to have died. There was an ugly hole over his heart, seeping crimson onto the floor. It was a wound that could only be made by one thing: a Muggle gun.

She glanced up at Sherlock with an inquisitive expression on her face. The Holmses were probably the most pureblood family in Britain – maybe even in the Europe – so how did Sherlock know what a Muggle gun was, let alone the damage that it could cause? Molly was ready to ask him this, but was shocked into silence by the look on the Ravenclaw's face.

He was staring down at the Boggart wide-eyed and – for Molly could think of no other word for it – scared. Yet he forced his expression back to its usual emotionless state, and raised his wand at the Boggart.

"Ridikkulus!"

Crack!

The form of the Boggart changed, but it was by no means gone. Its new form was also of a dead body; this time of the seventh year Gryffindor John Watson. The prospective Healer was lying perfectly still, a pool of blood collecting underneath his head.

"Ridikkulus!" the Ravenclaw shouted, his voice sounding slightly manic. The spell worked this time, and the Boggart was banished back into the case, which Sherlock locked with another flick of his wand.

A silence descended on the classroom. Sherlock looked up at Molly, glaring, as though daring the Hufflepuff to say anything about what had just happened.

"That should be enough for today," the Ravenclaw said stiffly, and with a few more flicks of his wand the case zoomed back into the cupboard at the front of the classroom and the tables and chairs re-emerged in their original positions. "Good evening."

Sherlock turned on the spot and swiftly exited, leaving Molly shocked, confused, and alone. She had known the Ravenclaw for three years now, and in all that time he had never shown any true form of emotion. Well, not emotion as was understood by most other people, at least. She had surely never seen him scared before; all evidence pointed to the fact that he was above such weaknesses.

Molly stood in the Defence Against the Dark Art classroom with the images of the Boggart in both its dead forms revolving around her head for at least fifteen minutes before she realised that she had been staring into space. She shook her head violently, snapping herself out of it. She tried to forget about the look on Sherlock's face when the Boggart had taken its shape. She wondered if it was a look that she would ever forget as long as she lived.

Yet as she reflected, she realised something: Sherlock had been truly scared. He probably still was, and no matter how startling it was that he was capable of such things, it was not something he should have to face alone.

Molly – filled with a sudden new surge of energy – bolted for the door, expertly dodging tables and chairs and throwing herself through the door and out into the corridor beyond. She instinctively took a left-turn, but was called back by a seemingly disembodied voice.

"Miss! Miss!"

Molly turned on the spot, before she realised that she was once again being addressed by the military wizard painting. She ran back down the corridor to him.

"He went that way," he offered helpfully, pointing in the opposite direction to the one Molly had been heading in.

"Oh!" Molly gasped. "Thanks!" She took off down the corridor.

"No problem! You go get him!"

Molly checked every door that she passed, seeing more empty classrooms than she thought even the massive castle could possibly hold. She was almost about to give up, sure that Sherlock had returned to Ravenclaw Tower, when she caught a glimpse out of the window into the grounds.

A light was flickering on the bank of the Black Lake and two people were sitting by it, a boy and a girl – sixth years by the look of it. The light from their probably completely-against-the-rules campfire illuminated the entire bank and, about fifty feet along was sat another: a fourth year Ravenclaw with jet black hair, sitting looking out over the surface of the Lake with his knees drawn up to his chest.

Her footsteps loud against the stone floor, Molly practically ran to the oak front doors, rushing through them and straight towards the Lake. When she was twenty feet from the Ravenclaw, she paused.

Sherlock was staring out at the Lake, as though transfixed by the moonlight glistening off of the watery surface. His grey-blue eyes were glistening with what looked like tears, and his pale skin shone brightly in the darkness.

She stepped forward tentatively, trying to be as quiet as possible. He made no move to acknowledge her presence, though Molly was certain that Sherlock knew that she was there. She neared the Ravenclaw and noticed that he was shaking – only slightly, but the trembles were definitely there.

Molly sat down next to the Ravenclaw in silence, staring out at the Lake the same. She wasn't sure if she could speak; it was such a strange situation to find herself in. Sherlock was the epitome of emotion control; he never let anything get to him, let alone a Boggart. But at the same time Molly couldn't forget those two pairs of dead, glassy eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. It chilled her more than the January air ever could. In the end, she just had to know.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered quickly. Too quickly.

Molly was stunned into silence for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted. Molly risked a glance at him. The colour of his eyes was intense, glowing with the sheen of tears that refused to fall. The shaking had not stopped, but he kept tensing in an effort to make it cease. He looked angry, his features fixed in a scowl that hadn't been there before, but Molly suspected that he was more angry at himself than at her.

"Sherlock," she began, "you don't look okay-"

"THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!"

Molly jumped. The couple further down the bank of the Lake looked over at him, but after a moment of silence they soon went back to their campfire.

"I am fine! Do you want me to prove it?" He snapped his head round to her, with a look of anger mixed with a kind of delusion that seemed to border on psychotic. Molly was almost scared. "Let's try them, shall we?" he pointed over at the campfire couple. "The new couple where all the boy wants is sex and the girl with the British Blue called Merlin who just wants to get over her ex."

"Wh-" Molly looked over at the couple. There was a large box of chocolates sitting between them, half empty. The girl seemed to be eating most of them, though the boy kept stealing glances at them almost longingly. The boy was also wearing a garish cloak, white with an ugly red and green pattern on it. She knew that Sherlock could deduce all sorts from this, but Molly couldn't tell a thing.

"How do you know that?" Sherlock said in a false falsetto, making fun of someone other than himself – Molly guessed that it was probably her, but it could easily have been anyone that didn't share his intellect which, from past experience, she knew to be everyone bar his brother.

"Look at the cloak he's wearing," he explained in a quick, almost frantic voice. "Hardly worn. Clearly he's uncomfortable in it. Maybe it's because of the material; more likely the hideous pattern, suggesting it's a present, probably Christmas. So he wants into his girlfriend's good books. Why? Almost certainly sex.

"He's treating her to chocolates, but has hardly had any himself. That means he's probably putting his hopes in the aphrodisiac properties of the cocoa bean."

"Well, maybe he just doesn't like chocolate," Molly suggested, still staring at the couple.

"No, look at the way he's staring at the uneaten chocolates. Plus he's got saliva on his hands where he's licked the chocolate off of his fingers. He loves chocolate, why is he letting her eat the lion's share? Because he's looking to get lucky tonight - you can tell that by his dilated pupils and attempts at an alluring smile.

"How do you know that she's his girlfriend? Who else would give him a Christmas present like that in school? Well it could be a friend, or an elder sister, but girlfriend is more likely.

"Now, he isn't a virgin. He's comfortable in such an intimate situation and that alluring look has been practiced as well; he's been changing it slightly each time to suit her preferences in such an area. But he's nervous, which suggests that he's been single for some time. He's just got a new girlfriend and is hoping to score tonight. 'New'? Yes, obviously. She's got a boy's name tattooed on the side of her neck - not that boy, because every time he sees it, he glares a little. Clearly her ex's. Such a tattoo is easily removed with magic. She could get rid of it, but she's kept it - it's too soon after the breakup and she still has feelings for him. This relationship is just a rebound; probably won't last.

"Now, the cat: tiny little hairs all over the bottom of her robes, where it scent marks her, dark but still visible against her robes, suggesting that it's a Blue. In fact it is - a British Blue called Merlin. 'How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?' Cause she sits on the Ravenclaw table with me and I've heard her calling its name and that's not cheating, that's listening, I use my senses, Molly, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I've never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone."

Molly found herself stunned into silence. She turned back to the Ravenclaw, who was glaring at her angrily. He really did seem to believe that he was fine, that he had in fact 'never been better'. Molly could almost laugh; for a Ravenclaw who professed to having such intellect that all others' paled in comparison, he really was an idiot.

"My Boggart is my father," she began, in as calm a voice as she could muster after his, in all honesty, quite frightening display.

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, I did manage to figure that out."

Molly scowled a little, but paid no attention. "When I got my letter, I couldn't believe it. I finally had an answer to all the weird things that had been going on. Like when I was seven and I was worried about the fox eating my rabbit, and the next morning there was a gust of wind that blew the neighbour's bin over and spilled all the prawns in it out onto the street. The fox got such a taste for them that he never came back into our garden again. Or like on my ninth birthday when a girl in my class had her party on the same day as mine, and when we drove passed her venue the day before, a water pipe burst and they had to cancel. My parents had just dismissed it as a coincidence, or a stroke of luck. But I never quite believed it. So when I got my letter, I was ecstatic that my parents had been proved wrong.

"But… the thought of having a witch for a daughter didn't excite my parents as much. Particularly my dad. He wanted to believe that the letter was a hoax. He did as well, until two Ministry wizards arrived to explain the situation."

Molly paused, remembering the awful night when the two nice, blue-robed wizards had arrived on her doorstep and explained to her family that she was, in fact, a witch, and had proved the existence of magic by turning her father's bowler hat into a pigeon which stole all of the cherries from the fruit bowl in the kitchen and flew out of the window.

As she had been talking, the look of pure rage had slowly melted off of Sherlock's face, yet while he didn't interrupt her, he still didn't seem particularly interested. Despite all this, Molly knew that he was listening to every word.

"My father threw them out and started calling me a freak. He said he couldn't figure out how this could have happened, and that he'd almost asked the Ministry wizards to take me with them. I often wonder if it would have been better if I'd gone," she added, chuckling humourlessly.

"I stay at the castle during the Christmas and Easter holidays. When summer comes round, I dread the thought of going home. My dad hasn't used my real name for three years. If he must address me at home, he calls me 'you' or 'freak' or… other things. He terrifies me, just like your Boggart terrifies you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Molly cut him off.

"I know what that look is, the one in your eyes right now. You say you're divorced from your feelings, but that's not the case; you just don't understand them. You're scared, and it's okay."

The Ravenclaw had a strange look on his face. He seemed to not want to believe her, while it was the most important thing in the world that he did.

"I assume…" he began slowly, licking his lips nervously, "that you know who my Boggart became? Firstly?"

Molly gulped, unsure of how to answer. Sherlock had a tendency to be temperamental, and she had no idea how he would react. "I do. But… he had a gunshot wound. How do you even know what a gun is, let alone what it can do to someone?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, though it lacked any real emotion. "My brother practically is the Ministry of Magic. As a result, he works quite heavily in wizard/Muggle relations. Our parents were not entirely happy with his frequent contact with Muggles, but nevertheless were proud of his political career.

"I know what a gunshot wound looks like because my brother does. He was never very good at Occlumency, and I vowed to master Legilimency when I found a book about it in the library at home. I saw it in his mind, and realised that something similar could easily happen to him."

He lapsed into silence, almost seeming embarrassed at his confession.

"You never talk about your brother," Molly commented quietly.

"No," Sherlock agreed.

"Do you… not get on?" Molly wasn't sure why she was asking all these questions, but she figured that if Sherlock was willing to divulge secrets, then she wasn't going to waste the opportunity.

"Not really. Caring is not an advantage." He lapsed into silence, and Molly knew that he was not going to say anymore.

"You do, though," she mumbled a few moments later. her voice sounded far off, and she almost doubted that it had been her who had spoken at all. Sherlock turned to her.

"I'm sorry?"

Molly blanched, mortified that she had said those words out loud. "Um…"

"I do what though?"

She gulped. "Care. You do care. Otherwise your Boggart would be something selfish, like the fear of getting bitten by a venomous spider, or a snake, or falling from a great height."

"I am scared of none of those things," he said matter-of-factly, his brow creasing in confusion.

"No, I just mean…" She sighed, pausing. "You obviously care about your brother. And you obviously care about John Watson. Otherwise your Boggart would not have made you think that you had lost them. You're scared of losing them, and that fear could only have come about because you care about them." She forced herself to meet his eyes. He was looking at her as though he couldn't quite believe that he did in fact still have emotions.

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He looked like a lost puppy. The hopeless, helpless look on his face inspired her to do something that she never expected she would ever have the confidence to do.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

He made no noise of protest, as he had expected, but when she pulled back he was smirking. She blushed furiously. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's… fine."


End file.
